‘Let’s get out and see what’s happening,’ Penderel chimed in. ‘I believe the whole damned hill’s going. Something’s burst up above.’ He was opening the door. Horribly cramped, Philip tumbled out and joined him in the black downpour. At least it was good to be on one’s legs again, and though the night was hideous, the situation seemed less precarious than it did when one was sitting in there, playing fantastic tricks with mechanism.
‘Are we going to push on,’ Penderel shouted, ‘or stay here and ask these people for shelter? We can’t go back, for that road’s completely done in. And the road in front may be done in too. I’m for staying here.’
‘But listen to that.’ The fury behind had not spent itself and even appeared to be gathering force. ‘We’re close to it,’ Philip went on, ‘and the whole place seems dangerous to me. It may be all washed away before morning. And really we ought to tell those people what’s happening.’
Penderel walked forward, peered through the entrance, and then returned. ‘They don’t seem to be bothering much about it. Lights on, but no signs of alarm.’
‘Perhaps they don’t know.’ Philip shivered. ‘For that matter there may not be anybody there. They may have cleared off.’
Margaret was looking out of the car. ‘Why are you standing there?’ For once she sounded forlorn. ‘I can’t stand much more of this. It’s a nightmare.’
‘Penderel thinks we ought to stay here,’ Philip told her. ‘But I feel inclined to go on. It isn’t safe here and the road in front seems to be still open.’ He looked forward as far as he could, and though the road was partly flooded it revealed no dangerous obstacle.
‘But is it open?’ Penderel asked the question, and Margaret, still peering out, seemed to echo him.
The next moment they were answered. There came a rumble and a following roar, this time in front of them, somewhere not far away in the darkness. It seemed as if a whole side of the hill was slipping or being washed away. The noise was deafening, terrifying, like a great buffeting of the ears; and even the ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble. The road in front had gone, and what was left of the horseshoe bend, the little stretch on which they stood, was now being rapidly flooded. ‘Bring her in here,’ Penderel shouted, and rushed to the drive, bent on leading the way. Philip hesitated long enough to feel the sudden chill wash of water round his legs, and then clambered back into the car. The rain was streaming down his face and he could hardly see; his hands were so numbed that they were like pieces of wood; but the engine was running and he contrived to jam in the gear and slip the clutch with only the loss of a few seconds. For a moment or two the car roared helplessly, but then it began to move slowly, with a prodigious splashing, and he turned it through the entrance and up the drive, which ran forward at a slight incline. He could see Penderel hurrying in front, a jerky and blurred figure in the rain, just like a man in a film. Now the house, surprisingly large to be in such an out-of-the-way place, towered above them. What was to be done with the car? Philip couldn’t decide, so merely turned it round the corner, where the drive curved towards the front door only a few yards away, and then came to a standstill. The head lamps shone upon the house and the door was strongly, dramatically, illuminated by their uncouth glare. It was a large door, stout enough for a little fortress, and three broad steps led up to it. Somehow it looked as if it were closed for ever.
Philip found Penderel looking in at him. ‘Benighted!—that’s the word,’ Penderel said. ‘I’ve been trying to remember it all the way from the gate. I’ll go and beg for shelter. What a night! What a place! I like this, though, don’t you?’